Her Return
by Fireloom
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a man used to dangerous moments but this christmas, he's faceing a much more dangerous foe. luckly she knows just the right way to provoke him... A look into the strange love of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. Adlock. Rated T for sexual and drug refferences.


Sherlock paces the living room of 221B, his gait controlled and careful with his hands held behind his back. His ears perk for the right sound frequency of the water boiling on the stove. It occupies him for now, keeps his mind from wandering to the evening ahead of him. What it doesn't distract him from though, is the garish Christmas decorations Misses Hudson insisted on stringing all over the room... 

He's expecting a guest on this day, the anniversary of her 'death' five years previous. Every year, Sherlock has celebrated _her_ rather than the tradition of Christ's birth, ever since. Only, this particular date is different... she will be here in person, rather than busying around him as the spectre of Christmas' past.

Sherlock had managed to convince (or rather, almost blackmail) his brother into allowing The Woman temporary pardon to return to London. Mycroft agreed under the condition that Sherlock be her warden of sorts, to keep a close eye on her. The detective jumped at the opportunity, already being thoroughly practiced at making sure the little dominatrix stays out of trouble. That was almost two months ago now, and hardest he tried, Sherlock could not get it out of head since then.

The water comes to a boil just in time... Instead of dwelling on the many things that have been brought to his mind following the rather tense conversation, Sherlock begins gathering glassware to make two cups of tea for himself and his guest.

Sherlock had known the date and time of her flight landing for weeks now. He did all he could to stop himself counting down the days. Even with his efforts, no matter how many extra cases he took on, the number still decreased with every strike of midnight. As the date drew nearer, even the hours and minutes were accounted for.

It won't be long now before she arrives. Sherlock is glad that John Watson opted to nestle himself away in some museum with Mary and little Rosie for the day. This way, the doctor didn't notice Sherlock's fingers drumming anxiously against every surface they found, neither his eyes fluttering lustfully to the clock every few moments, like they do in this one. it taunts him with every tick...

It's 5:36PM when she arrives, eight minutes out from his original calculations (he forgot to factor in holiday traffic). Sherlock watches as the black government car weaves between the cabs on the street, pulls in, and then comes to a stop in front of Speedies.

Sherlock turns away and walks up to his chair, taking his cup of tea from the end table between the couches where he set the tray. He doesn't need to see the occupant exit the vehicle to know who he will be entertaining. Besides, he has other more personal matters to attend to... like the tremor in his breath.

He sits and sips, letting the soothing warmth of the tea bring him as much calm as it can. He succeeds in lulling his respirations to a reasonable pace. That is, until the front door opens and all his efforts to do so are undone. It's the involuntary flutter in his chest that makes his anticipation bleed through to his fingertips and then into the cup as well, as he taps rhythmically on the porcelain.

The expected "click, clack" sound rings out through the flat as heals approach the stiff wooden stairs leading to the second floor.

Sherlock closes his eyes as the sound increases in volume and her journey up the flight begins. He counts the steps. The numbers become almost deafening in his ears, even though all he does is mouth them.

She reaches the fifth to last step. Sherlock takes a deep and steadying breath.

Four. The tea in his cup starts to tremble with the shake in his hands.

Three. He replaces it in its saucer before the china betrays his nerves by spilling its contents.

Two. He wets his dry lips, his mouth in no better a state.

One. His heart rate quickens suddenly, until it overpowers his counting, making him lose track of the last number.

She steps out onto the landing. His heart stops.

"Did you miss me, Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock observes her for the first time in years, His eyes running down her form. First, along her black lace dress, the cut coming low to her chest and the hem falling to midway on her thighs. Next, her dark navy stockings, suspenders only just visible below her gown. She wears heeled black-leather boots, silver buckles running up the front. Back up her figure now, and Sherlock catches sight of the deep cobalt blue collar cinched around her neck. It's only partly in view as her faintly curled hair falls in front of it, hiding it and most of her collarbone. Finally his eyes meets hers and he notices the dark tones of her mascara doned lashes, and the tinge of light blue shadow on her lids. she's put in great effort for tonight, a smirk twitches at the corner of his lips at the thought.

In turn, a coy smile plays along hers -a deep blood red as always, as she starts to stride into the room. He can practically _feel_ the sarcastic remark about to spill from her mouth. Probably a teasing quip about his prolonged gaze. He expects no less from her, as he would do the same.

"Yes," Sherlock interrupts, just as her lips part to speak it. Irene holts by John's old chair. She tilts her head in question while placing the clutch she brought with her on the end table.

"Yes, I missed you," sherlock clarifies with a smirky flick of his eyebrow, daring her to remark upon his admittance of affection. He also warns against paying mind to the slight waver in his voice.

Irene grins delightfully and purrs, "romantic," as she sits opposite him. She crosses her legs and instantly, she fits with the decor. Though, Sherlock argues, that could just be because to him, she suites anywhere, since Christmas tinsel and ribbons are certainly not in her natural habitat. 

Silence. Their eyes glare cautionary and daring gazes at each other, prodding with a stick, to see what happens next. Sherlock gives in first.

"What's on the agenda for your return to London? I'm sure Mycroft has a few procedures to go through before you're unleashed on the city," he comments, his expression animated with sarcasm as he speaks.

"Correct," Irene starts, "a car will be sent for me. 'Says he has some questions." Another pause as they get down to discussing the business of outsider relations. She tilts her head with mischief in her eyes, a silent inquiry of her own playing within her pupils.

 _'He'll be asking about us, won't he?"_

Sherlock gives a small shrug of his lips... _'Probably.'_

"How long do you have?" Sherlock asks, verbally this time. Irene pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and glances him down and up. Sherlock scours her face to pick up on what she's thinking... A moment pases before her eyes return to his.

"I have been granted the night to..." she stops, gaze wandering to the walls for a second. " _Rest off my jetlag_..." Sherlock confirms what he was looking for. It's the coy tilt of her head and the emphasis she places on her last sentence that suggests she will not be doing any _resting_ tonight. Sherlock's heart speeds at the insinuation. "I'll be picked up tomorrow morning," she adds, confirming his last deduction.

"You have time, then."

"- _We_ have time," she corrects with a sly grin, Sherlock returns it.

"Plans?" Even though Sherlock has thought about and detailed the events of this night for longer than he can remember -even before the plans to have her pardoned were set into motion, he knows anything can happen when this particular person is in his company. He might aswell ask what _she_ has in store for him. 

"Well..." Irene starts, "while this tea you've prepared," she looks pointedly at the untouched cup resting beside her, "-is lovely, I was thinking a drink a bit stronger."

Ah, of course. The question of once more, engaging one another on the level of substance junkies is answered enthusiastically, with a shout of _"yes!"_ in Sherlock conscious.

"I see you've thought ahead in this manner," Irene continues, deliberately flicking her eyes to the unopened bottle of wine resting on Sherlock's desk.

"I did, though I can't take _all_ the credit..." He stands to retrieve the drink. Around the neck is a tight, lime coloured Christmas bow and a note. "A gift from the Watsons," Sherlock makes conversation as he grabs it and goes about seeking out a pair of wine glasses. "Probably thought it would give our reunion incentive to celebrate." Sherlock adds the _probably_ simple for effect as he knows this to be true. It was in the coy and shy manor John presented him with the present that proved it. The doctor had about him the air of a giddy schoolboy, or an inwardly smirking checkout assistant as they scan contraceptives, (even down to the insinuating _"have a fun night"_ John said as he scuttled away.)

"Incentive? All I need is to be here as incentive," Irene says with a teasing lilt. "Though, the alcohol helps."

"Certainly," sherlock replies as he uncorks the bottle and begins pouring, sitting down again. He makes a show of leveling her glass higher than his, before he passes it over. Irene smirks as she takes it, she seems to appreciate his action...

With pleasantries done with, they fall into expectant silence. They both sip their wine as their eyes glue to one another. Engaging in the familiar game of prowess and whitt, is quick and inevitable... Though tonight, they feel the weight of higher stakes on their shoulders.

The silence stretches on for longer than any other pair can manage without feeling uncomfortable. Though to Sherlock and Irene, it is beautifully electrifying... This time; this quiet, is a chance to _see_ eachother again. To peal back the mask of normality they wear ever-constant with others. Permission is asked, and permission is granted, their gaze search the other's temperament. If that is the right word. Sherlock knows whatever it is that has managed to embed itself into their very beings, runs deeper than that... He tries to describe it.

They see all that is them. Vague, Sherlock knows, but he refuses to think of something as sentimental as seeing into each other's souls. The detective almost physically winces as the phrase pops into his head. He still maintains that infallible hatred for those overly poetic and useless words. Somehow though, an underlying feeling of truth spikes within him when he thinks them, like a pinprick of contentment in his chest. Sherlock won't admit it openly, even to himself, but in the private and personal space Irene and he share, he can say it... He sees her soul, and she his in turn.

Sherlock feels just as high strung and excited now, as he did when when he first lay sights on The Woman's naked form in her Belgravian home. Even more unnerving is that it is her piercing pale blue eyes that stir the most emotion in him. These eyes he has stared into more times than he can count, when the only thing he could do was fall into the ocean of calm they provided. A subtle feeling... It makes his breath steady and his heart rate calm to a strong but even rhythm. Everything else fades until all he can perceive is her. No case work adorns the desks in his mind palace, no worries of babysitting or monotonous and boring social interactions, no awareness of anything but the person before him.

He can assume she is feeling the same way as it appears they usually share these intense emotions between them, in their eye contact, in the silence, in the dust hovering all around them. Everything in the room seems to move and still in time with their breaths, the space dancing and warping within their energy. Nothing else is important. Even to the books and beakers, and papers, only Sherlock and Irene take focus; inanimate attention's undivided on them as if the unliving room has a voice and is deliberately holding it.

Her lips curl with a fond smile, his lids lower with affection and suddenly, everything becomes _more_.

Irene makes her next move by giving him a daring look before she brings the glass to her lips again and downs the rest of her drink. She pulls it away once the precious red liquid is consumed and outwardly gasps with a wince. Her eyes become glossy as she slips further down into her seat. Sherlock watches as a pink hue of intoxication, springs to her cheeks. Everything about her, from her posture to the ease of which she takes her alcohol, expresses that inhuman pride she has.

Sherlock lets out a breath, her audacious act achieving its desired effect on the detective. She's done this before... His lips twitch up on one side. Oh, what a cheeky little one, he knows what game they're playing.

With a challenging gaze to match hers, Sherlock downs his wine and frowns against the sting in his throat. He outright _refuses_ to cough or splutter, lest he loses points in their unspoken duel. Sherlock senses blood quickly rising to his own cheeks now, his sudden intoxication becoming apparent.

Prompted by Irene holding her empty glass out to him, Sherlock leans forward and grabs the bottle to pour again. He catches Irene's eyes as the bottle hovers over her glass. That desirably lustful glint is within them, as he knows his must contain the same.

"You never could handle falling behind, could you?" she asks rhetorically, pulling her glass to her lips and punctuating her sentence with a sip.

"You never could handle a worthy opponent," Sherlock counters with a pointed tilt of his head. Irene stares at him for a long moment, before her lips once again curl into that deliciously frisky smile. It excites him beyond reason. The solace Sherlock previously found in her eyes, is replaced with an insatiable desire to challenge the smirky creases appearing at their corners. Which he does by taking a gulp larger than her last, his statement hovering in the air between them, and awaiting her comeback...

"Touché." Irene aquiests. She raises her glass in cheers. Sherlock does the same before they simultaneously taste the supple treat.

The game they're playing is self-detriment in disguise. A quick and easy route to intoxication through fiery competition. Many would call it a drinking game... Though, they would call it a drug game. Sherlock and Irene have played it countless of times, and with many differing substances. Even still, the metaphorical and unspoken rules remain convoluted and contradictory. One being the conditions are different for each player. The person who prepares their drug of choice always gives a higher dose to their opponent. With this known, technically Irene would already be ahead in this round, as Sherlock pours her glasses larger, but that variable doesn't factor and they remain tied.

The second flawed aspect is once the game is won, it no longer matters who wins. By this time they are already drunk and moving on to more important matters. Like most of their interactions, this game is but a cleverly devised smokescreen, developed to hide their true intentions. These are, of course, to achieve a certain comfort and intimacy that comes with increasing levels of intoxication. For two cagey, narcotics aficionados such as themselves, playing this undefined game is the only way to bring this about. Neither of them will openly admit their want to be intimate in this way if they were sober. The game is an excuse to transition between these two states.

The last flawed aspect is that both parties know all this. They also know that the other knows too. So why do they continue to play this game when it's so redundant? Well, for fun, of course...

While the narcotics aided their ease with each other, they were not strictly necessary. other times had come and gone where due to outside circumstances, the aids could not be used. For example, they had to perceptive and aware for a job or they could not get to any sources. In these times they were more exception than rule as they're facades were still present in such circumstances. Their competitive natures were on full display, only in different ways. It's easier this way. An excuse not to fight, not to challenge once they commence. Sherlock appreciates it aswell, because _surely_ it was only his altered state of mind talking when when he says _'I love you.'_ plausible deniability, one of his favourites.

And so Sherlock sips, and Irene matches.

Their play is already achieving the desired effect as Irene shows signs of comfort. She eases further down in her chair, her arm lazing on the rest. She leans a hefty amount of her upper body weight on it. It contorts her body language in a beautiful way. Sherlock follows her lead by releasing the knots of tensing that have worked their way into his shoulders. They are mainly caused by the obsessive way he has mulled over this night for the past months, so releasing them now is a treasure. He offers her a soft expression and she returns it.

Ease. A temperament that is, ironically, harder to attain than spoken of. He feels it now, and it comes with the sudden realization he hasn't felt it at this level since he departed from his dearly beloved. Annoying though, statements such as _dearly beloved_ spring to his mind with as much ease as the normal and overly sentimental population he so despises...

Irene once again, shifts. This time, she jolts her head to one side while also flinging her locks of fringe hair over with the motion. She gives him a look of mischief and suddenly he knows why. With the offending stands out of the way, Sherlock instantly sets sights on her collar.

That's when his heart starts to pound out of his chest. The collar triggers numerous memories, all of which are sexual in nature. The response is created by the prolonged sensory conditioning Irene has worked into him, particularly surrounding that accessory. Sherlock has to exhale a deep breath to calm his suddenly raging nerves, all the while Irene watches his reaction like a scientist observing a rat caught in a maze.

"You like it, don't you?" She asks, her voice innocent as ever. Sherlock has the feeling she isn't referring to the look or fashion of the collar, but instead, his involuntary response to seeing it. He plays her statement off as the former anyway.

"It suites you," he replies, his voice overly steady as he over-compensates for the waiver that he knows would otherwise appear in his tone. Sherlock subtly wets his lips once he speaks. They aren't dry, but he now has an excess of salvation that he needs to disperse. He doesn't want to choke on his own spit again, as he has done before. It led to a coughing fit that was very unsightly and needless to say... ruined the mood quite a bit...

"I was going to bring yours too, but I thought you wouldn't wear it," she continues, a cheeky look on her face. Sherlock grows suspicious of her, what is she playing at...?

"Why wouldn't I wear it?" he pushes, getting the overwhelming feeling that he is falling right into whatever trap she has set for him, unnerving yet exciting him at the same time.

She takes a breath and a moment before she speaks again...

"You're not one to admit your sexual desires to anyone but me, let alone flaunt it your friends by wearing _couples' collars_."

Oh...

Sherlock freezes. He stares in awe at her, his mind going into lockdown as all his processes grind to a halt. His precious mental reasoning shuts down to instead feel the visceral shock her words inflict on him. Not only does that sentence contain no semblance of subtlety, but is also spoken under no guise of flirtatious denial. Irene has broken the rules... and she's done it with so much ease it leaves Sherlock at a loss for words.

An undefinable amount of time passes before she opens her mouth. "Luckily," she begins again and that tension returns to Sherlock shoulders. He suddenly realises that while he was reeling from her spoken truth, she had been rummaging through her bag. "I like to watch you squirm."

Suddenly, Irene flings something at him. He catches it expertly, his trigger reflexes on high alert for a moment The Woman decided to pelt something at him, which she does quite often... Sherlock opens his hands and looks over the item he just caught. His own collar. Oh, she _is_ clever. It was his folly to ever to underestimate her cunning.

His fingers start to tingle where his skin touches the item, yet another response to her conditioning. His mind recalls every moment this collar was around his neck, pinching at his skin and restricting the blood flow to his mind, sometimes with a leash attached and being held but the only woman he allowed the pleasure of owning him in this way.

He examines it, checking the seams, slightly frayed in places; the chunky brass buckle, chipped and scratched; the prong loose from overuse. This one is leather, unlike her felt one. It still adorns that colbalt blue stain though, a matching collar set must have matching colours. Everything is the same as it used to be, except for one detail... Attached to the front is a new tag, hanging loose and layered over the leash loop. It's a shiny silver disk, contrasting to the old faded shade of the other metal components.

Sherlock looks closely at the tag. On the frontward facing side is a cursive _'S.H.'_ written in Irene's handwriting. He flips it over. The back is inscribed in smaller writing of the same font:

' _If lost, return to Irene Adler.'_

Sherlock smirks in admiration. Only The Woman can pull of something so bold.

One glance up to her and he notices that she has a new matching tag as well. A style choice? Certainly not...

"I assume yours says: _I'm Irene Adler?'"_ Sherlock quips, calling to mind the many couples' tourist T-shirt he had seen with a variation of these two statements printed into the fabric.

"No, it says: _'If lost, return to Sherlock Holmes.'"_

Oh yes, very clever indeed... an interesting power play, as is her fortay. In this case, Sherlock expected Irene to proclaim herself the only dominant in their unconventional, BDSM-based relationship.If she had, she would have written what he first assumed: _'I'm Irene Adler,"_ but she did not. She has placed herself in both a dominant and submissive position, as she has done with Sherlock aswell. The submissive; by requesting she be returned to her metaphorical owner, Sherlock Holmes. The dominant: by placing the same phrase and as such, position onto him.

Sherlock rumbles a low chuckle at Irene's plan. What better way can they represent their complex acquaintanceship than with this? It brings him pride to know how cunning his partner is.

"Dual ownership, then," Sherlock comments, comparing the emotional and sexual ownership a dominant has over a submissive, to the practical, domestic arrangement a marital couple might take out on the purchase of a family home. "Isn't that a bit risky?"

"Well, it's only fair," Irene says with a cheeky smile. "Beside,I have _plenty_ of incriminating evidence against you, if you ever break the terms of our agreement." Sherlock grins as she takes part in playing with the hypothetical he presented.

"Do be reminded, Miss Adler, I have my repertoire of knowledge pertaining to illegalities you have performed aswell."

"Double exposure... Very clever, Mister Holmes."

"Indeed," Sherlock confirms. With knowledge held over each others head like a gelatin, ready to drop at any time, neither would have the desire to break their hypothetical agreement. Though, that isn't the reason they stay together.

Another moment passes, they eyes dancing with each other and their drink being depleted.

"Put it on," Irene tells him, nodding to the collar hanging lazily from his fingers. Sherlock complies by placing his glass down, undoing the buckle and slipping it around his neck.

"Usually you'd do this part," he comments as he pulls the strap tight and locks it in place. The itchy inner-fabric irritates his skin in the most delightful manner and again, his heart speeds.

The Woman grins wide, a wild look creeping into her eyes as she opens her mouth to speak again. "Dont worry... I'll have plenty of opportunity to do with it as I please, soon enough."


End file.
